Of Dragons and Ravens
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: It's hard to make good friends at Hogwarts. Even harder to make great ones.
1. Chapter 1

It was just another first day back to school, and another set of first years to be sorted before they could finally eat dinner. John Watson shifted on his bench at the Gryffindor table, staring his empty plate down. "Whatcha doin?" Mike nudged him.

"Waiting for the food." John mumbled back.

"This is your second year here, you know the drill, mate." Gregory Lestrade said from across the table. "Try to smile as the first years come in. You remember what it was like for you."

John spun himself around to face the small stool with the Sorting Hat on it. He did remember. Being a muggle born, learning he was a wizard, being shepherded into this Hall, all eyes on him, the Hat booming "GRYFFINDOR" as fast as it could.

The doors opened, and the first years were marched in and stood in a line. Professor McGonagall began to read the names. "Abbot, Hannah! Baker, Destiny! Eldridge, Steven!" And the list pattered on. "Holmes, Sherlock!"

A loud moan of desperation escaped from the Slytherin table. "Not another Holmes!"

The Slytherin table laughed mockingly. A boy removed himself from the line and walked gracefully to the hat. His midnight curls fell just above his eyes, and his robes moved like smoke around his feet. As he turned to sit on the stool, his observant gaze could melt fire itself, and made every one in the Hall feel small and exposed. "Ravenclaw." The Sorting Hat didn't make his announcement as fervently as normal, a tinge of vulnerability in his voice. The boy stood stiffly from the stool and found a spot on the bench at Ravenclaw.

The Hall was only silent for a moment. "Hooper, Molly!" A small girl with dirty blonde pigtails bounced onto the stool, and was sorted into Hufflepuff without a second thought.

"That kid's going to cause trouble here, I can already tell." Greg said to his mates at the Gryffindor table as the rest of the first years were being sorted.

Mike Stamford piped up again, "I heard he's taking all second and third year classes this year!"

John shook his head. "That's hard to believe. No one could be that clever."

"Yeah, where did you get that information?" Greg probed, always the fact checker.

"I'm friends with his family, remember? The last time Mum and I were over at the Holmes', his mum was bragging about it. But, having been to his house a dozen times, I've never seen the bloke before. I was starting to think he was a myth Mrs. Holmes had made up to make herself feel big."

John looked over to the Ravenclaw table as Stamford continued to gossip about the Holmes family. The kid with black hair and a penetrating gaze had softened once the attention was away from him. John could see his face from where he was sitting, and it was as if someone had taken the marble he seemed to have been carved from, and turned it to clay, ready to be molded by an artist, or frozen by the sweep of a cold hand. John cocked his head slightly in thought. Who was he that felt he needed to put on a cool mechanical front, only warming when the eyes were gone?

"I could introduce you two, if you'd like, John. I think you'd be great friends." Mike offered.

"Um, no thanks." John pulled himself back into the conversation. "I can introduce myself, if I want to."

But dinner came and went, and John continued to watch the young gentleman from across the room, noting that the boy didn't lift a single fork to his mouth. Later that night, John stared at his ceiling thinking about a first year taking all second and third year courses. "No one could be that clever." He said again. But something told John, the boy with raven locks and marble features just might be.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson rounded the corner, the Gryffindor common room not far away. It'd been a long day of classes, and he had way too much potions homework, which he didn't understand anyway. His lab partner was just as clueless, so he was genuinely lost in the wilderness and just taking shots in the dark. When he came to the end of the corridor and was about to turn another corner, a flash of black and blue slammed into him, knocking the twelve-year old to the floor; stars popped behind his eyes when another forehead connected forcefully with his. John opened his eyes and found himself staring into liquid silver, a tinge of fear buried in the courage behind the unique eyes. The first year Ravenclaw scrambled off and tried to collect his scattered books and papers, glancing over his shoulder as he did. "Hey, are you-"

John was cut off by three boys coming around the corner and seizing the other kid by the scruff of his neck. "Here he is, boys. Thought you could get away, huh?" The sixth year Slytherin sneered.

John grabbed his wand and pointed it at the older boy's face. "Put him down, Draco. Don't you have a Defense test to fail?"

Draco Malfoy dropped his prey, the kid was so small for his age, that he actually fell a good distance to the ground and landed with a 'snap' that did not sound good at all. The sixth year loomed over John. "I will not take insults from a mudblood!" He lunged at John, but found his foot caught in the grasp of a first year.

Draco fell hard at John's feet, and the young kid jumped up and said, "Run!" And they took off like a shot down the corridors, the older boys trailing behind. John had no idea where they were going, he just blindly followed the younger boy, until he magically disappeared. John stopped abruptly and looked around. A hand shot out of a dark corner and pulled him in. The two strangers huddled in the dark, not breathing or moving as the Slytherins streaked past their hiding spot.

When it was safe, they ventured out, looked around, then collapsed against the wall giggling with adrenaline. John gasped for breath and said, "What's your name again?"

"Sherlock Holmes." The younger kid stuck a hand out.

John took him into a handshake. "Why were they after you?"

Sherlock frowned. "I am small. Easy target, I guess."

John began walking back to where they had abandoned their books. "I doubt you'll be small forever, though."

Sherlock just shrugged and reached into his pocket, pulling out a velvet bag. "Want a chocolate frog?"

"Thanks!" John stuck his hand in and grabbed a wriggling candy. Still not used to the magical chocolate, the frog easily slipped through his fingers and hopped down the hallway. "...oops."

The Holmes kid just laughed, which triggered another one from John. When they reached their scattered school supplies, they had to work to separate whose paperwork was whose. They'd almost gotten them all straightened out, before Sherlock said, "These potions equations are all wrong. You mix these together and you will kill us all."

John grabbed the paper out of the first year's hands. "How would you know? I'm in second year potions."

"And I'm in fourth year."

John shook his head. "You're lying. There's no way."

"I could tutor you, if you like. I need someone to help me with a few experiments, and I could teach you in return."

John eyed him warily, then, not knowing what had possessed him to do so, said, "Alright, deal. But," he said as he shook his new friend's hand, "I'm not swallowing anything that looks suspicious."

Sherlock considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Deal."


	3. Chapter 3

_Slight mature content warning. There's some sensitive topics in this one._

* * *

"Wow, Sherlock! Your house is so cool!" John looked around the mansion in awe, ducking quickly as a tea kettle floated past his head.

Sherlock just shrugged. "It's just a house. All old wizard families have similar ones."

"Yeah, well, my parents are teachers, so we don't have anything close to this." John jumped as an owl landed right in front of him. The tawny avian ruffled it's feathers and dropped a letter at Sherlock's feet, before taking off again.

Sherlock picked it up and read the short letter, before tossing it in a nearby bin. "Mum?" Sherlock called through the house.

A tall, beautiful woman with long raven hair cascading in curls around her pale face came into the entryway from another room. Her bright blue eyes shone with warmth as she walked over and pulled Sherlock into a hug. "Oh my dear Sherlock. Did you have fun at school?"

The twelve year old smiled at his mother. "You know how I feel about school."

"But I see you've made a friend." Mrs. Holmes extended a long, elegant hand to John.

"Mum, this is John Watson. Is it OK if he spends the night?"

"Of course. I'll ask Carmen to make something special for dinner tonight." She ruffled her son's hair. "Watson... I haven't heard that name before."

"John's a muggle born, Mum."

"Oh! Well, our home is your home. Be sure to ask if you need something." Mrs. Holmes turned to leave, but Sherlock caught the sleeve of her dress.

"Uh, Mum?" He said quietly. "Dad's not home, right?"

She put a comforting arm on his shoulder, "No dear. He shouldn't be home until tomorrow."

Sherlock visibly relaxed, then grabbed John and said, "C'mon, John! I want to show you my lab!" He started pulling John towards a flight of stairs. "Oh, and Mycroft said he won't be home for a few days. Interning with The Minister."

"That's fine." Mrs. Holmes said, before John and Sherlock were out of earshot.

John got a full tour of the house, and was awe struck at all the features of the house. Sherlock had his own potions lab, and his room was huge. The family had a very large garden and several swans and peacocks roaming the grounds. Then, after exploring the secret passages under and through the house, they sat down for a large steak dinner at a huge dining room table.

"You have a great house, Mrs. Holmes!" John complimented as they went upstairs to get ready for bed.

"Thank you, dear. You're welcome back at any time."

They brushed their teeth, then crawled into Sherlock's over-sized bed, the color scheme of the sheets brown and blue for Ravenclaw. They stayed up for most of the night, talking and cracking jokes, Sherlock listening to John rant about his crush on the Hufflepuff girl, Sarah. Just as they were about to fall asleep, however, a loud voice boomed through the house. "SHERLOCK HOLMES!" The S's were slurred just a bit.

Sherlock curled up under the sheets and began to tremble. John pulled the comforter up over his head and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Sherlock?"

They heard Mrs. Holmes' voice next. "David, no. Leave him alone. Please!"

"Get off me, Victoria!" There was the muffled sound of a small struggle, then, "Sherlock!"

"Please, David! He has a friend over! Please stop!"

Sherlock sprang out of bed and out the door, closing it behind him. John got up and pressed his ear against the door. He heard Sherlock say softly, "Father."

Then John jumped in shock as he heard the sound of fists on skin and bone, and Mrs. Holmes' soft sobbing the background, the word 'please' set on repeat. All the while, Mr. Holmes kept shouting, "You didn't ask me to have a friend over! You just barely passed your Defense Against the Dark Arts class this year! Why can't you be more like your brother?"

The sounds stopped, and John realized he had covered his mouth and begun to cry. He scrambled back away from the door, as it opened roughly, and the soon-to-be third year was practically thrown into the room. Then they heard, "Shut up, Victoria! Quit your crying, or I'll give you a reason to cry!" The house was silent again.

John pulled out his wand and lit the end of it with a timid 'Lumos'. Sherlock stared at his feet, his lip bloody and a nice bruise forming on his fragile cheekbone. John got up and moved slowly to his friend, then slowly took his hand and pulled him to the bathroom. There, he washed away the blood and tears. Neither of the friends said a word about what happened.

As soon as Sherlock's wounds were patched, he fell into John's arm with a choking sob. John held his friend as he cried, a display Sherlock never let anyone else see. When the younger boy could breathe again, he croaked, "I'm sorry you had to hear that. Please don't leave me."

"Sherlock, it's OK. I'm in too deep now to leave." The two laughed quietly. "You are my best friend, after all."


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock! Wait up!" John yelled, chasing the sixteen year old across the grounds of Hogwarts.

"C'mon, John! There's something I want to show you!"

John Watson swore under his breath and stopped in his tracks. There was no way he could catch up to the younger boy; he was too short, and Sherlock had shot straight up over the summer. John crossed his arms and stared at the patch of trees at the end of the Forbidden Forest that his friend has disappeared through, waiting.

Sherlock came back out of the forest and yelled, "What are you doing?"

"You never wait for me, Sherlock. I always went at a pace you could keep up with when you were shorter than me!" John started toward the forest again.

"Or you could grow a few feet, you freakin' Hobbit."

John shoved his friend when he got close enough. "Shut up, bean-pole."

They laughed and Sherlock led them, slower this time, into a clearing in the forest. "We're not supposed to be in here, so this better be good."

Sherlock smiled slyly. "Look what I discovered over the summer." He snapped his fingers and suddenly, John's best friend was shrinking and changing, until a large, black panther was circling him.

John's smile faded to a look of pure shock. The panther's eyes were unmistakably Sherlock's the steel around the elongated pupil seemed to laugh at his surprise. The muscles in his shoulders rippled as he paced the clearing, the glossy coat gleamed like a river of black in the patches of sunlight. John couldn't move. In the blink of an eye, Sherlock stood in front of his friend again, smoothing out the wrinkles in his uniform and smiling like an idiot.

"How did you..." John still couldn't think.

"I was born with it. I'm an animagus. Turns out, some animagi can't transform until later in their life, and some can from birth. Mum and I were having dinner when we found out I had this ability. I sneezed sort of violently, and suddenly there was a large jungle cat in my mother's kitchen. She fell off her chair in surprise."

John burst out laughing picturing the sight of his best friend sneezing himself into an animal. "That's so cool, Sherlock! So now whenever that one Slytherin starts messing with you, what was his name?"

Sherlock frowned. "Anderson."

"Yeah. Well, now you can just scare him into leaving us alone!"

"Not so. Turns out, there's a whole list of rules you have to follow as an animagus. 1. You have to be registered, which I did. 2. You can't use it for evil, pranks, anything like that, or you could have some serious consequences. Among others."

"Since when do you listen to rules?"

"Since my mum threatened me with a trip to the vet if I didn't behave. I don't know what that is, but I don't want to find out."

John's muggle knowledge came in handy once, and he burst into another round of laughter. Sherlock smiled and threw an arm around John and led him out of the forest. "I can trust you to keep my secret. Last thing I need around here is another reason for them to treat me like a circus side-show."

John nodded. "Of course. You kept the secret about what happened to me last year with that incident with the girl's lavatory."

"You forget, John, that that's my secret as well. We got into quite a mess with that situation." He laughed.

"Yeah. Poor Myrtle, though."

Sherlock shrugged. "The whole thing was basically her fault, I feel no guilt in what happened to her in the end."

John rolled his eyes. "Of course." He suddenly took off sprinting across the grounds again. "Race you to the Great Hall!"


	5. Chapter 5

Snow was falling in furious flurries, dancing and playing along the window panes and kissing the ground chastely. John Watson was sitting in the window seat of his dormitory in Gryffindor tower, smiling out at the weather. "Here's the tea." Sherlock said, handing him a mug of tea and sitting on the floor by the seat. "Merry Christmas Eve, by the way."

"Merry Christmas to you, too." John took a sip of tea, then looked over his shoulder to see his friend, who was staring into the fire in the center of the room. There was a hint of sadness in the stoic eyes, one only John would ever catch. "What's wrong?" He snapped the new laptop closed, swung his legs around, and dropped to sit on the floor next to Sherlock.

"It's our last year, John. We graduate in a few months."

"Yeah? What about it?"

"Well, then what?"

"Aren't you going to work with the Ministry? In the Department of Magical Catastrophes? I mean, they did initiate your grade skip so you could get there faster."

"I meant us. You're going to St. Mungo's to be a healer, and we won't see each other again. You're my only friend, John." Sherlock didn't turn his gaze from the fire.

John shook his head. "Wait, who said we weren't going to see each other again? If I still plan on hanging around with Lestrade and Molly and Sarah after school, then why wouldn't I hang out with my best friend?"

"I'm your best friend?" Sherlock's head shot up to look at John.

"Of course you are. I was actually just online looking for flats in London, I thought we'd split the rent on a place."

Sherlock nodded. "That sounds good." He took another large swallow of his tea and then said, "Wait, is that what that thing is?" He waved at the computer.

John stared at his genius in disbelief, then remembered Muggle devices were foreign to him. "Yeah, it's a laptop. My parents sent it for Christmas. You can get online and do all sorts of things." He opened it back up and clicked on a tab. A blue screen came up and several white boxes with words in them littered the center.

"What is that?"

"It's called a blog. I run one about my life and the misadventures we get into."

"Why?"

"Why not?" John gave the laptop to Sherlock. "Here, I opened up several websites you'd like. Just scroll through and be entertained. This one is Tumblr, the blog one. I also pulled up YouTube, Wikipedia, and Google." He plugged headphones into the port and gave them to Sherlock. "Go nuts. I'll be back in a bit. I need to call my family."

An hour later, John came back into the dorm room to find Sherlock still glued to the screen, the laptop on the floor in front of his crossed legs and his fingers were steepled under his chin in concentration. He looked over the top of the screen to see something on YouTube, a playlist of short of videos of people slapping each other, or dancing with their cats. "I see you've found vines."

Sherlock nodded, took the headphones out and snapped the laptop shut. "But I'd prefer to stay in this world, thank you, not the Muggle one. They all seem like idiots."

"They seem that way because most people on YouTube are idiots."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Wanna go mess around in Hogsmeade?"

"I thought that place was 'dull'?"

"Yes, but you like it, and as they say: 'YOLO'." Sherlock said in his 'factual voice'.

"How about we go to Hogsmeade, I buy you a butterbeer, and you promise to never say that again."

Sherlock considered this proposition. "Fair enough."

The walk to Hogsmeade was always a tough one in the winter time. The two seventh years had put on long sleeved shirts, coats, and scarves, but their cheeks were still a burning pink by the time they reached The Three Broomsticks. "Two butterbeers, please." John exchanged money for two warm mugs, and brought them over to the booth Sherlock had picked out. "Here's yours." He slid in next to his friend.

"It's too cold out, John." Sherlock complained, scrunching his noise in disapproval at the window.

"And what would you like me to do about it? I can't exactly change the weather." Sherlock shrugged and took a swallow of his drink. There was silence in the booth as the two friends enjoyed each other's company and the small buzz their drinks gave them. When they were reaching the bottom of their glasses, a small tap came on John's shoulder. He turned, but there was no one there. He went back to his glass. The tap came again, and when John didn't turn, it tapped him again. Still, John didn't react, and when the mysterious tap came a third time, John moved at top speed and caught the offender. It was a soft, slender tail. John dropped it and turned back to Sherlock. "How many times have I asked you to stop doing that?"

Sherlock finished off his drink and turned to John, this time having sprouted sleek ebony cat ears out of his curls. "I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you're going crazy." He tried to look innocent.

"Shove it." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't think just cause you've sprouted ears, that automatically gives you the right to act 'cute'."

The ears flattened irritably, then vanished again. "Well, fine. You have a foam mustache, by the way."

John wiped the froth from his upper lip and smiled. "I've always considered growing a mustache."

"No." Sherlock said simply.

"It's my face, why shouldn't I grow a mustache?"

"Because you'd look ridiculous."

"You think I look ridiculous all the time."

"No, just when you try to do potions homework. Or any homework, really."

John turned around and gave the tail (which was still poking him in the ribs) a firm tug. Sherlock hissed lowly and the black wisp of fur disappeared promptly. "What's wrong? Don't like your feathers ruffled?" John teased.

"John, didn't your mother ever teach you not to pull a cat's tail? We have claws for a reason."

"She only taught me to never pull and innocent cat's tail. You, however, are not innocent." John got up out of the booth and stretched. "Let's go. I have a surprise for you."

Sherlock huffed at losing the argument, and stood up, rubbing his tailbone as he did. They bundled back up and walked out into the cold. It was a short trek over to Dominic Maestro's Music Shop, and the warm air inside was as inviting as the enchanted instruments that floated through air, a melody trailing after them. "Ah, John. I was wondering when you'd be back. It's ready for you." Dominic was a friendly old man with callused hands born from many years of music-making.

"What's ready?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll see." The shop owner came back up from the back room, carrying a black case with a bright blue ribbon wrapped around it, and set it down on the counter. John nudged his tall friend. "Go ahead. Open it."

Sherlock made his way over to the counter, and ever so gently, pulled the ribbon until it fell away from the case like water. When he opened the lid, a hand-crafted violin stared back at him, and his breath caught in his throat. It had been carved from cherry wood, and the stain made it a deep, tantalizing auburn. The bow was black and the hairs had been carefully colored a brilliant silver. Sherlock pulled the instrument slowly from it's case to inspect it all over. John watched his friend carefully turn the woodwind over and see the inscription. In silver script near the neck, it read:

'_To Sherlock,_

_Merry Christmas._

_-John._'

Sherlock pulled the violin sharply up into position and danced the bow across the strings, relishing the clear and concise melody he elicited. When the short song had ended, he looked at his friend with tears in his eyes. "How did-"

"When I was at your house this summer, Mycroft told me that your dad had smashed your violin in one of his rages. So, I talked to Dominic here and designed you a new one to give to you for Christmas. Do you like it?"

Sherlock didn't answer, only threw his arms around his friend and started to cry.


	6. Chapter 6

A quiet melody filled the dormitory of Ravenclaw tower, violin strings trembling under the delicate bow held expertly by long, elegant fingers. The song was a new one, a soft lullaby composed on the spot for the situation, and the floating sensation of the notes matched the snow storm outside in a mesmerizing way. Sherlock stood in front of the large window, pulling on the strings gently, occasionally pacing a few steps in front of the glass. His tail following the music as a director would address his orchestra; the inky appendage dipped and swelled and danced, the unique beauty capturing John so tightly, he was lost in the music, never to be found again.

The song was starting to come to a close, and John was brought back from the watery depths of his friend's talent. "Do you like being an animagus?" He asked, pulling Sherlock's quilt tighter around his shoulders and suppressing a sneeze.

Sherlock turned around. "Why do you ask?"

"Cause you always have either a tail, or cat ears, or even claws when you need something opened." John shifted so that he was no longer cross-legged on the bed, but his knees were pulled close to his chest.

"Yeah, I do. It's useful and I guess it's just a part of who I am. It's especially nice in the winter, the fur is warm. And there's something oddly pleasant about the warmth of the fire on it." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.

"But you only do it in front of me. No one else gets to see that." He pointed to beautiful tail tracing circles in the air.

"Well, cause I can't really be me around anyone else." Sherlock shrugged and placed the violin on the bed next to him. "How you feeling?"

"Like I'd been run through by a train." John fell back onto the pillows and groaned in frustration. He'd developed a very bad head cold, and Madam Pomfrey had prescribed him a strict diet of soup and bed rest. Sherlock had holed them up in his dorm, because his roommates were still home for the holidays, and John's had almost all come back. "You didn't have to give me your bed, you know."

"Well, my roommates would be angry if they came back and got sick because you'd been sleeping in their bed. And I don't get sick." He smiled and picked the violin back up, and began a new lulling composition.

John repositioned the quilt so it covered him completely and tried to fight the sleep that was starting to invade the edges of his mind. But the violin ultimately won, and John slipped into dreams fogged by sickness. When the new song ended, Sherlock turned back around and saw that John had finally fell asleep. Day had faded away quite some time ago, but John had been kept up by his cough. Sherlock yawned now; he hadn't been getting much sleep lately, his mind had been racing at top speeds and didn't want him to silence it for more than a few measly hours a night. He walked over to his bed to put the beautiful violin back into his case with the blue bow tied across the lid. The fire blazed and the quilt was thick, but John still shivered from the fever. Sherlock frowned, before an idea settled on his brain like the flurries dusting shadows across the floor in front of the window.

A large black panther jumped up onto the bed and curled itself up lazily on top of John's feet, stilling the shivers. He yawned forcefully, razor teeth reflecting the firelight, before following his friend into the dark.


	7. Chapter 7

"I promise, John, this will be worth it." Sherlock said for the third time that hour, but John was starting to doubt.

"Can you just tell me what we're doing out here?" John asked. Sherlock had hiked him out into a large clearing in the forbidden forest and they now lay side-by-side on a blanket, staring up at the clear night sky. "I mean, the sky is beautiful, but I doubt we had to walk out to this spot just to see that."

Suddenly, a flash of green shot across the sky. Before John could ask what it was, more streaks and flashes gathered in the sky until the emerald lights waved like an ocean above the tree tops. John just stared in amazement at the shimmering phenomenon, the greens and blues weaving blankets of luminosity across the heavens. "What is it?"

"Aurora Borealis. Or, in common terms, The Northern Lights. It's caused by the excitement of oxygen and nitrogen electrons in the atmosphere. I heard the astronomy teacher talking about it earlier today, and I thought it would be fun to see."

"I thought you didn't care about space? Deleted the solar system, remember?" John smirked and turned his head to look at his friend.

The jade hues kissed the pale cheeks, as Sherlock said, "Just because I don't find the information important, doesn't mean I can't appreciate the view, John."

John lay back against the blanket and watched the lights paint against the dark canvass. "It is quite a view."

"Yes."

They continued to watch Aurora Borealis for an hour, enjoying the silence and the wonders of nature. They would be graduating in a month, and there would be little time for moments like these in the future, so John took in every second and stored it away in a box for a rainy day.

* * *

**Author's Note: **We learned about the northern lights today in science class, and I felt like this needed to happen. So, sorry for the short nonsense. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock wasn't studying for his NEWTs. 'What for?' he would say when any student would ask him why he hadn't opened a single textbook on finals week. Sherlock had blown past the knowledge required for the tests a long time ago, and his teachers had given up trying to teach him anything new and just let him sit in the back of class levitating objects during the final month of school. But Sherlock was growing more increasingly bored with each day, and without John to entertain him, he was becoming more and more irritable. John had to study, of course he did. And he wouldn't let Sherlock anywhere near him when he did, because the genius would just poke him and talk his ear off until John stopped what he was doing and focused his attention on his friend.

There was nothing to do in the Ravneclaw dorms, nothing to do in the library, and Hogsmead was closed to students until finals were over (not that there was anything to do there, anyway.). Sherlock would have gone out into the forbidden forest and hunted squirrels again, but Hagrid had caught him once, and after almost accidentally killing him, threatened him with a bucket of water and a report to the headmaster if he caught the large cat one more time. Sherlock was resigned to his dorm in the end; laying upside down on the bed and letting the blood rush down his body and to his brain was surprisingly good for thinking. He was just starting to see the edges of his vision blur when something silver and quick passed through the window, causing Sherlock to sit up a little too fast. When his head stopped swimming, he saw a misty patronus sitting on his bedpost. The argent raven opened it's beak, and John's voice streamed out. "Sherlock, I found a flat I think we could go halves on. Come to Gryffindor tower." Then the phantasmic bird dissolved into the air.

"Finally, something to do!" Sherlock grabbed his blue and brown scarf and tore off in the direction of Gryffindor tower. John's patronus was a raven, not really surprising, but still a little curious. A person's patronus is supposed to reflect the caster's personality, but some of the animals were harder to place than others. Lestrade's patronus was a large dog, which made sense because he was in magical law enforcement, and dogs were good protectors. Molly's was a rabbit because she was kind, but could bite. Sherlock's own patronus was a fox because of the clever, proud way foxes assert themselves. But why John's was a raven, Sherlock hadn't worked out yet. He would have guessed it would be a lion or an eagle. Something brave.

Sherlock shrugged. "A puzzle for another day."


	9. Chapter 9

John shut his laptop and got up from the window seat, he had to go down and wait for Sherlock to get to the common room and let him in. He put the laptop on the bed and turned to the door, jumping slightly in shock as he did. "Sherlock, how did you get past the Fat Lady? You're not a Gryffindor."

"Oh like the password is hard to guess." He waved the comment off and smiled mischievously. "So what's this flat you found?"

"221B Baker Street." John opened the laptop again. "The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is a witch and only leases to other magical folk. It's the only 'magic permitting' flat anywhere close to where we'll work and study. It looks pretty comfy, and I think we should take it."

Sherlock gazed briefly at the pictures, then nodded. "I think so, too. How soon can we move in?"

"Umm.." He scrolled through the information. "It looks like whenever, so we could be in a few days after we graduate."

"Sure you mind sharing a flat with me? My roommates hated me over the years. Violin at three in the morning, experiments exploding under their beds."

"I like your playing and you're not allowed in my room with any experiments, so I think I'm fine." He smiled.

"Let's do it, then."

And three months later, boxes were apparating left and right into the living of 221B Baker Street.


	10. Chapter 10

It didn't take very long for the graduates to get themselves settled into their flat and a routine; and after a few weeks, they were settled into their jobs, too. Sherlock started out immediately in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, shadowing the head Obliviator for a few days, before being given a cubicle and a name-tag. "It's not funny, John." He had sneered at John when he came home that day with his name pinned carefully to his shirt.

"Oh come on, you in a suit and a name-tag is pretty funny." Sherlock took the metal off and threw it at John.

"I hate my job."

"Sherlock, you've only been on it for a week. How can you know if you hate it or not?"

"I'm in a cubicle, John. And I'm not allowed to conduct experiments, and thanks to yesterday, speak to anyone, really."

"What happened yesterday?" John sat down on the couch with two mugs of tea, patting the spot next to him and the eighteen year-old threw himself heavily onto the cushions.

Taking one of the mugs and a large swallow, he sighed aggressively. "I made a few deductions about the Minister to piss my brother off, and no one was very pleased."

John looked as if his eyes would run away from his head. "Sherlock! You can't do that to the Minister of Magic. He can take your wand away, you know that right?"

Sherlock pulled the yew with unicorn's hair wand from his pocket and rolled it in his long fingers. "They wouldn't. Mycroft practically IS the Ministry, so they wouldn't do anything without him initiating it."

"Still, knock it off. You're the only real income right now and we can't lose that." John was only working part-time at the mini-mart down the street while he did his Healer studies at St. Mungo's. "After I become 'Doctor Watson', you can piss off the whole Wizarding World for all I care." The two laughed and went back to drinking their tea.

Years passed that way; John studying and finally working full time as a Healer, Sherlock erasing the memory of Muggles and wizarding folk, before they came home, collapsed side-by-side on the sofa, and drank their tea and told stories about their day. They were fast years, filled with peace and quiet and tea and friendship. The laundry did itself, the cooking and cleaning did as well. Both the boys were benefitting greatly from living in a 'wizarding flat'. Sherlock spent some days pacing, a book levitating in front of his face, while John tried to solve the Rubix cube that floated above his head as he lay on the couch. On rainy evenings when the Muggle power went out, Sherlock would conjure small orbs of soft light to float around and through the rooms of the flat, always making one for himself and John, to hover above their heads as they browsed newspapers, books, or magazines on the couch. It was on one of these rainy nights, that Sherlock had a sudden revelation. "It's your birthday, John." He said suddenly, lowering his book, and swatting the orb above his head and sent it to float amongst it's brothers and sisters near the ceiling.

John looked up from the crossword puzzle he was doing and said nonchalantly, "Yeah. What about it?"

"I almost forgot. We should go to dinner."

"Sherlock, it's pouring rain outside. And we don't have to do anything, it's just a birthday. Another day except now I'm older than yesterday." He smiled and went back to his puzzle.

"My treat. You're only 35 once, you know." He smiled.

John considered for a moment. "Fine. How can I say no to free food?" He swatted his own orb away and found his coat. "Where were you thinking?" The lights of 221B slowly flickered back on. "Hey look, the power's back!"

Sherlock pulled open a curtain. "The rain's letting up. It's just a light fall now. We can walk to Angelo's. It's just right up the street."

John shrugged. "Why not?"

They set out into the rain, walking side-by-side in silence. The lights of Baker Street hazed through the water, and the whole stretch of concrete was quiet, as if the street was taking slow, relaxed breaths. It was peaceful. "It's beautiful what calm a storm can bring."

John just nodded and ducked inside the cafe, grabbing their usual spot by the window. "Evening, boys." Angelo said, setting their normal drinks onto the table. "Same as always? Or are you feeling adventurous." His smile extended to his eyes as he pulled out his order pad.

"Just the same." John replied, Sherlock nodding in agreement. The restaurant was warm and the two wizards relaxed into the booth, watching the rain patter onto the sidewalk. "Thank you for remembering my birthday."

Sherlock shook his head dismisively. "What else are friends for?"

"Not setting your jumpers on fire?" John laughed as Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I apologized, John, but it was for an experiment." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And, since you never asked, it was a successful one and all the kids loved it the next day."

"And what did Headmaster McGonagall say about it?" John raised an expectant eyebrow.

"Irrelevant." Sherlock's drink was suddenly very interesting to him, but he couldn't help cracking a smile when John began to laugh. He'd taken up a teaching job at Hogwarts two years ago and was constantly trying out new potions, experiments, and ingredient containment options on John and John's property. The professor was just lucky that the healer was patient and used to it; normal people would've left by that point.

The old friends laughed and ate and drank until they were sleepy from a day's work and full stomaches. So the coats came back on, Sherlock's bright blue scarf (a Christmas gift from John) went back on, and back out in the rain they went. The storm was picking up again when they reached home, and after shaking water off in the hallway and draining their shoes on the porch, they padded back to the living room on socked feet.

John fell right onto the couch when he reached the living room, only moving once to pull his wand from his pocket so it wasn't poking him anymore. Sherlock threw the curtains open wide and watched the storm for a little while before pulling his violin out and pulling a small tune from the strings. John rolled over and propped his head up on a pillow and watched his friend move, smiling to himself when he saw the black tail moving rhythmically behind him. Sherlock truly liked being an animagus. John would come home in the winter sometimes and find a large jungle cat splayed out on the floor in front of the fire, snoring quietly. John would always laugh and reach down to scratch behind his ear, causing the sleeping professor to roll his head into the touch, before waking up, standing up, and straightening his suit.

Now, John saw that the normally midnight tail was starting to become peppered with white. "You're getting old." John muttered, half asleep.

"You should talk." Sherlock said, putting the instrument back down and sitting in the armchair across from John. "You're older than me."

"By a year."

"So we're both getting old."

John shrugged in a non-committal way. He turned his head and looked at the storm that was raging again and knocked out the power once more in the flat. "The calm before a storm is also pretty phenomenal."

Sherlock looked out at the lightning criss-crossing it's way across the London sky. "It can be. And when it rains, it pours."

And pour it does, for Sherlock came home a few weeks later, upset and pacing the living room.

"What happened?" John asked when he came home from the hospital.

"A new Defense teacher started today. I don't like him, he looks at me in an unnerving way and he just seems off to me. I don't appreciate the way he stares at me."

"Maybe he has a crush on you." John laughed at his own goofy joke. "What's his name?"

"Professor James Moriarty."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was seated at his desk writing a large red 'D' on the last potions essay he needed to grade before he could go home. The dungeons of Hogwarts were dark and damp, so the ceiling of the office was packed with the magical floating orbs, and a fire crackled in the stone hearth. The violin Mycroft had given him as an 'office warming present' when he got the teaching job drifted lazily through the air playing a soft tune. Sherlock always used the instrument for background to grading papers, and had no qualms with leaving it at the school over night; he only used John's Christmas gift one at home (even though it was getting old and had needed to be re-stringed several times over the years). Finally, he set the quill down and stretched. The clock on the wall read 7, and if he was lucky and left right now, John may have waited for him to have dinner; if not, Sherlock was going to have to fend for himself, and that usually meant either starving or burning the flat down (even with magic).

A small crash sounded out in the hall leading to his office, and on a reactionary impulse, two silken cat ears sprung out of his curls and listened intently, staring at the closed door. Then, a soft knock floated through the heavy wood. Sherlock relaxed a bit. "Come in."

The door opened and the school's newest professor stuck his head through. "Hi, uh, you must be Sherlock Holmes." He nervously came into the room and stuck out a hand in greeting. "I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty. The Defense teacher. I was just introducing myself to the other professors."

Sherlock looked the professor up and down, made a quick impression of him, then ignored the hand and looked back down at his papers. "Pleasure." He could almost feel Jim's smile drop.

"Oh cool, are you an animagus?" Jim took a few steps toward the desk.

Sherlock's ears disappeared as quickly as they'd appeared. "Yes." He still didn't look up. "Now if you'll excuse me-"

"I'm a big fan, by the way." Now Sherlock looked up, one eyebrow cocked in question. "I've read your books. I especially liked the essay about the comical results of mixing a love potion with a confidence-draining potion and a potion that causes excessive talking."

"Yes, well, my flatmate did not." But Sherlock couldn't help laugh a bit at the memory. He'd given John a mixture of a 'love at first sight' potion, causing him to fall in love with the American celebrity that was in the magazine on the coffee table, then the other two potions kicked in, and John didn't stop talking about her for three days, while also recounting all the reasons why she didn't deserve to be stuck with him. When the potions had worn off and Sherlock's essay was finished, John had realized what happened and was hell-bent on revenge, which came in the form of Sherlock waking up in public places he did not fall asleep in for several days.

"What's your flatmate's name?"

"John." Sherlock was getting irritated now. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have some more paperwork to get through and leave before I miss dinner."

Jim nodded and went to leave, accidentally knocking over the pencil cup that held his quills (another office-warming present from John). "Oh I'm so sorry." The teacher scrambled to the floor to pick up the mess and Sherlock rubbed his forehead in frustration. Finally, Jim set the wooden cup back on the desk and quickly left. "Well, bye, then." He said nervously and shut the door behind him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, fished the scrap of paper out from among the quills and crumpled it up before tossing it in the fire on the way out of the office. He hurried across the grounds to the disaparation point in Hogsmead, turning sharply on his heels and disappearing with a small 'pop'.

John was just about to give up and call in some dinner, maybe thai food tonight, when an aggressive 'pop' sounded in the hallway. "Well it's about time!" John called teasingly.

Sherlock stomped up the stairs. "Shove it. I wouldn't be so late if that new professor hadn't tried to befriend me."

"And did it work? What's he like?" John turned around in his chair to face his friend who was struggling with his tie.

"Muggle born. Gay."

"Now hang on," John stood up, "What makes you say that?"

"He slipped me his number before leaving."

John had to support himself on the back of the chair, he was laughing so hard. "You gonna call him?"

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "Maybe you should, since you're the one who asked to hear more about him."

"Nope. I happen to have a date tomorrow night."

"I'll give you the number then, for when you strike out." Sherlock turned to go to his room, when John zapped him with a very mild stunning spell. "Hey!" Sherlock turned back around.

"Who says I'm going to strike out?"

"All your other dates." That earned Sherlock a lovely two-fingered salute.

* * *

John stomped into the flat at ten o'clock the next night, not even bothering to say hello to his flatmate, who was reading on the couch. "See?" Sherlock said with a smirk.

John yelled down the stairs, "Sod off!" Then slammed his bedroom door, blocking out the noise of a giggling Sherlock.


	12. Chapter 12

"The right wing on the second floor is out of bounds," Headmaster McGonagall's voice floated through Hogwarts, a tense and agitated tone in the message. "All students return to your dormitories immediately! No dawdling, no excuses. All staff please report to the right wing of the second floor corridor now. Thank you."

Sherlock looked up from the paperwork he was just finishing and glanced at the clock. It was 6 o'clock and spaghetti night back at the flat. Looks like he was going to be missing it now. He rolled his eyes in annoyance and pulled out a small scrap of parchment and scrawled '_John. Possible small emergency at school. Eat without me, but leave some for when I get there. -SH'_

He gave the small rolled up note to his tawny barn owl, Martin, and sent the messenger out the window and in the direction of the flat. He put his teaching robe back on over his shirt and tie, grabbed his wand, and locked the door behind him. He turned around and slammed right into Professor Moriarty. "God, Jim! What are you doing?" Sherlock collected himself and creased his features into a hard frown.

"I'm going to meet the other professors upstairs. I was down here, and just figured I'd walk up with you." He smiled. "I feel like we got off on the wrong foot."

Sherlock looked him up and down, and still decided he did not like the man. "And we're still on it. Excuse me." He brushed past him and began to stomp up the stairs.

"What's your problem?" Jim chased him. "All the other professors say that you're smart, but you're rude to staff members."

"Is that what they say about me? Sounds about right." Sherlock didn't turn around.

"Why do you deflect everyone?"

"Why do you care?"

"It's John, isn't it?"

Sherlock stopped and spun around. "What are you talking about?"

"Professor Hooper said that you were like this in school, too. You only ever talked to John. You only ever eased up on people when he was around. Why?" Jim smirked for some reason.

Sherlock just narrowed his eyes and said, "Sod off, Jim. My personal life is none of your concern. I don't even know you."

"Because you refuse to get to know anyone but your flatmate."

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, ignoring Jim's questions and 'small talk'. He reached the second floor, and when the two professors rounded the corner to the right wing, Jim's annoying inquiries were frozen in his throat.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, swallowing his shock. The two fighting teachers took almost identical steps forward to join the circle around the body of the sixth year student on the floor lying on her back. Sherlock's old classmate and now Head Auror for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Greg Lestrade, had shown up and was standing next to the Headmaster. No one spoke for a long time, everyone just stared at the poor girl strewn on the floor, eyes open and staring vacantly, blood dripping slowly from her mouth. "How could we let this happen?" McGonagall finally said.

"It's no one's fault, Headmaster." Molly Hooper spoke up, her eyes focused on the ceiling to avoid looking at the young girl she had seen alive and laughing not two hours ago.

"What's important now is that we find out who's behind it, and do something about it." Professor Flitwick's voice was so quiet with shock, he was almost unheard.

"Professor Holmes." McGonagall said. Sherlock looked up now. "You've had some experience with poisons. This looks like just that."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "It is most likely poison or a deadly potion." He went forward and bent over the body, taking in as much information as he could glean from the quick and impromptu examination. "However, this could have easily been an accident. Maybe she tried to make a potion for something, and messed up with dire consequences. Or it could have been purposefully given to her with malicious intent." He stood up straight again.

"Can you test her blood for poison and potions?" Lestrade asked now. "You've always been the best with that."

"Wait, don't you have investigators professionally trained for that stuff?" Jim asked now.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. "All he has is Anderson, and I promise you, you don't want to leave this to him." Sherlock murmured 'accio vial' and a small glass vial was summoned to his hand. "You might want to look away." He said in warning. Most of the teachers turned their heads and watched the bricks as Sherlock lifted the girl's head and tipped it toward the vial. Blood poured out from the corner of her mouth and into the glass container. He filled it with the evidence, corked it, and pocketed it. "I'll do my best."

* * *

A small 'pop' sounded in the hallway of 221B. Sherlock went up into the kitchen and found a note on the wood table. _'Sherlock. Spaghetti's in the fridge. Went to buy milk. -JW'_

Sherlock went to the fridge and took the plate out, replacing it with the vial of blood. Not even bothering to heat the noodles, he just sat down and started eating. He wasn't hungry, but he needed the distraction.

John came home within five minutes and bounced into the kitchen in his usual, good natured way. "Evening." Sherlock looked up, his mouth full of spaghetti. "Everything OK at the school?" He opened the fridge as Sherlock swallowed hard, freeing his tongue from its tomato-noodle prison. "What's this?" John poked the vial.

"A girl was possibly murdered at the school. That's a sample of her blood. I'm supposed to analyze it for poisons and deadly potions. Maybe dark arts."

John's jaw dropped. "Oh my god! Who was it?"

"Sally Donavon. A sixth year girl. Pretty popular amongst the other students, but a bit dim in school. She was failing my class."

"OK, most people fail your class, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Anyway, she was a bit mean to some students. so I could see there being a motive for murder."

"That's terrible." He put the kettle on and said, "You doing OK with it?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock scooped another forkful of noodles into his mouth.

"Well, you did just see a dead girl and take blood from her."

"Please, John. It's nothing more than science. You see dead people everyday."

"Yeah, but that's my job. Not yours."

"Funny," Sherlock mused.

"What's that?"

"I would think that a lot of dead people would mean you were bad at your job."

"Why do I hang out with you?"

Sherlock smiled a goofy grin, small traces of tomato sauce on the corners of his mouth. "Because I'm your best friend."

"Yeah, you are. But you're also a great big arse with spaghetti sauce on your face." John threw a tea towel into his friend's face and the two laughed together, just like every other night.


	13. Chapter 13

John Watson and Greg Lestrade sat side-by-side on the couch in 221B, tea mugs in hand and a casual conversation floating between them. They were playing their patronuses like a video game, a translucent raven swooped just out of reach of a large dog, the misty animals playfully jumping in and out of each other's reach. Sherlock was analyzing the blood sample at the kitchen table, his eyes glued to a microscope and a pen and paper pad levitating next to him, scratching down all his low mumblings and notes. "I don't think this is highly fair. Your raven can fly."

"So? Your dog can, too, if you want it to."

"Oh yeah!" Lestrade flicked his wrist, and the dog jumped up and ran across the air at the bird.

"Still can't catch me, though." John said, moving his wand quickly and pulling his bird just out of reach of the snapping jaws.

"Wanna bet?" Lestrade's dog tore off through the air and was right on the tail feathers of John's bird.

The raven dived and swirled through the air, passing right through Sherlock's head, a grunt of frustration coming from the professor and temporary detective, and flying out the other side to bank left quickly and fly under the table and back into the living room. "Sorry Sherlock!" John called, still focused on winning the game they had just made up. John gave Lestrade a hard push, and the dog disappeared. "Ha!"

"Cheater!" Lestrade pushed John back. John tackled him and the two grown men ended up wrestling their way across the living room floor like a couple of teenagers.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "If you two are done being twelve, I think I have something."

"Really?" Lestrade said from the floor, he was pinned on his back, pushing against John's hands, which were trying to restrain him completely. "What do you think it is?"

In Lestrade's distracted state, John pushed down suddenly and the Head Auror's wrists landed on the wood floor. John had him pinned fully to the floor now. "I win!" He smirked.

Sherlock walked over and shoved John in the shoulder, and the Healer was caught off guard and rolled off and onto his back on the floor. "No, I do. Now," He pulled Lestrade off the floor and in the direction of the kitchen, "I think you'll want to see what I found."

John stood up and brushed himself off, going into the kitchen to see what the results were as well. Sherlock grabbed the notepad out of the air and started to read. "It wasn't poison or dark magic, that's for sure. But I found traces of different ingredients in her blood stream, so we're looking at a potion. It's in a strong concentration, so it wasn't mixed in with any food or drink, and by the state of the body, I'd say it was self-administered."

"Like, a suicide?" John asked, inching forward to look under the microscope.

"Either a suicide or a murder. The potion could have been given to her by someone she trusted, telling her it had some desirable effects. But, again, going by the state of her body, I'm going to say suicide. If it had been murder, she would've reached out and tried to grab her attacker or would have shown signs of surprise of struggle on the body. It looks to me like a self-administered potion for suicidal purposes."

"But why was she in a corridor? Why didn't she do it in her room or somewhere more secluded?" Lestrade asked, taking the notes Sherlock offered him.

Sherlock shrugged. "She was always a dramatic girl. Maybe it was more 'hollywood' this way."

"Cause a scene even in death." John mumbled.

"Exactly." Sherlock said, beginning to clean up the kitchen table. "So that's the end, I guess. Just a suicide."

An owl flew in through the open window in a hurried rush of black and white feathers. He landed on the coffee table, dropped his letter, and flew back out again. Lestrade went over and picked the letter up from the rug. He read it quickly and the color drained from his face. "There's been a second one. And this time, they left a note."


	14. Chapter 14

This 'suicide' happened in the kitchen this time. A young, second year boy had wandered down in the night for a snack to go to bed with. The house elves had all turned in, and the kitchen had been empty. The only sign of a struggle was the bag of flour that had been upended onto the floor where the body fell on top. Sherlock, Lestrade, and this time, John, all stood around the edges of the scene, looking down at the tragedy. "Did you find anything in the blood work, Professor?" McGonagall asked Sherlock hopefully.

"I _had_ concluded that it was a suicide, but now I'm convinced otherwise." He moved closer to the note drawn in flour on the wooden floor.

"B-U-R-A. Wonder what that could mean." John mumbled thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry, but who are you again?" The headmaster asked, wondering how a non-staff, non-police man got into her castle and 'crime scene'.

"He's with me." Sherlock said before John could introduce himself. "And he was spelling 'burn'. The 'N' is almost formed. It looks like it was going to be an 'A', but that's not right."

"Ok, so he was about to die, and he scribbled 'burn' into the floor. Why?" Lestrade asked.

"No idea." Sherlock stood up and straightened his cloak. "But it was the same potion that both took. So, it looks like murder."

McGonagall frowned. "We're going to have to close the school down now."

"Not yet." Lestrade said. "If you do, we'll never catch the killer, and they'll just pick up where they left off when the school re-opens. For now, I'll send a few teams of officers over and they'll patrol the school 24/7 until we catch him or her."

The headmaster's worries weren't soothed, but she agreed finally. "But if there's one more, I'm shutting this place down for the year."

Everyone agreed to the terms, and crossed their fingers that there wouldn't be another murder before any of them could work it out.

Sherlock and John apparated home and collapsed onto the couch with moans and groans of exhaustion and frustration. "There' s a killer loose in Hogwarts. I can't believe it. That was the safest place I knew growing up." John sighed.

"Apparently, not all castles are fortresses. Evil lurks everywhere, John."

John just nodded, but neither said a word for a long time. Finally, John asked, "Do you have any idea who it is?"

"Not a clue. You?"

"Nope." John shook his head and stood up to go turn in for the night. "I guess we'll have to think quick before they get another one."

Weeks of thinking didn't help the students. The weeks of investigating and theory-forming didn't fix the problem. The case was cold, and the fear was hot. Finally, a break happened, though not one Sherlock was specifically hoping for. He didn't even have time to report the murder to McGonagall before he worked it out, and as the final puzzle piece fell into place, so did the realization of the danger he was now in.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock was getting ready to leave. It was the end of another school day, and another day the killer was walking free. The small investigation group was getting agitated and annoyed, with no new evidence to go off of, and the hope that there won't be another murder to get that evidence, they were all stuck in a deadly stalemate. Sherlock picked his wand up and locked the door to his office behind him. His shoes made soft clicks on the stone that echoed loudly in the empty corridor. Everyone was either home, or asleep. Sherlock had never stayed at school this late before, but final papers were due today, and they took a long time to read and grade. The school year would be ending soon, and hopefully next year would bring peace and, well, no murder.

A scream filled the corridor. "Apparently not," Sherlock mumbled before taking off in the direction of the scream.

The women's toilet on the first floor was flooding the hallway, and the ring of the scream seemed to still be echoing off the stone walls. Sherlock ran into the bathroom and had to catch himself on the sink as he slipped in the water. One of the faucets had been blown off and was gushing water everywhere, running over the body lying face-down and sending the blood to swirl around Sherlock's black shoes. Blood. This body was bleeding. Killed in a different way than the others. Three long gashes ran across the girl's back, blood still flowing freely and now caused the water leaking out into the corridor to run a deep crimson. The farther wall was scorched black, as if there had been a spontaneous fire.

Sherlock was about to go and get the headmaster, but stopped when he heard a faint crying from one of the stalls. A witness! He went and knocked on the door, which opened anyway at his touch. A silver mist of a student sat crying on the back of the toilet. She had the same pigtails as the victim, and realization swept over Sherlock. This poor girl had just been murdered, and had the unfortunate luck to be stuck here as a ghost forever. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

"What?!" The girl screeched, looking up. Her round glasses were cracked, most likely from when her human body had hit the stone. She softened quickly. "Oh, it's you Professor Holmes." She stood up and walked over, looking doughy-eyed up through her lashes. It was Myrtle. A sixth year student that he had had in potions a year ago. And one that had been openly known to have a very large crush on the teacher. "What are you doing in the ladies' room?" She slinked up and reached out a translucent hand to touch his tie, but her hand passed right through, and she began to cry again. Sherlock backed up quickly and stood a good distance away. He opened his mouth to ask what happened to her, when she began to wail and moan louder. His jaw closed with a 'snap'. "I can't even touch you!"

"You're not supposed to in the first place." Sherlock was irritated. To believe he was arguing with the ghost of the victim of the murder he was trying to solve, it was absurd and a waste of time.

"You could be more nice to me!" She snapped, jerking her head up from out of her hands. "I _was_ just murdered, in case you didn't notice!" She jabbed a hand at her corpse, still bleeding a little onto the floor.

"I did notice." Sherlock was more irritated now. He never liked this student to begin with, and now she was just in his way. "The question is: did you?" Myrtle stopped crying and stood up straighter, cocking a head in confusion. Now he had her attention. "Did you see what happened to you at all?"

The girl softened and tried to step closer to the professor, but as she took one step forward, he took one step back. Finally, she huffed and said, "No. I didn't see anything. I was just washing my hands, and there was suddenly a fire on the wall over there," she pointed at the scorch marks on the stone, "And when I turned to look, I felt a lot of pain in my back, then when I woke up and tried to stand up, I left my body behind, and screamed." When Sherlock looked over at the body again, Myrtle was suddenly close to him again. "I'm positively distraught." She pouted, then attempted to fall into his arms, but she passed through once more, and let out another loud groan of frustration as she retreated back to her stall. "Why don't you just leave?!" She yelled.

"Gladly." Sherlock said curtly, and stomped out to go find Headmaster McGonagall. He wasn't going to continue this investigation without her present to deal with Myrtle. He stormed down the hall, leaving the crying girl behind.

As Sherlock made his way through the castle, his anger at Myrtle's inappropriate advances subsided to a small trace of what seemed like pity. She had, after all, just been murdered. Sherlock just shook his head and continued his route to the Headmaster's office. As he turned a corner, there was a figure standing in front of the fireplace at the end of the hall, staring into the open flame. He didn't give it much thought, just continued down the corridor and just as he was about to turn the corner, the face of Jim Moriarty was illuminated in the firelight. Sherlock moved past, hoping his annoying colleague wouldn't try to engage him. As he continued down the new corridor, he heard the man say, "It's amazing how anything can be flammable if you try. You can really burn anything."

Realization hit Sherlock like walking into a wall. He spun around to face Professor Moriarty, and watched as the man absently tossed a pair of round, cracked glasses into the flames. He turned, the smirk he wore and the way mischief that sparked in his irises changed his features dramatically, and it was if Sherlock was looking at a stranger. His heartbeat picked up as Moriarty casually put his hands in his pockets and said, "Looks like I have your attention, now."


	16. Chapter 16

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"That's not the answer I was looking for, nor the real answer."

Moriarty just shrugged and strolled forward a bit, until he was very close to the potions professor. "Haven't you ever been _bored_, Sherlock?"

"Of course I have. But that doesn't mean I murder people."

"Don't you wish you had, though? You have to admit, the adrenaline of it all."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No. I try hard not to be destructive when I'm in a... mood." That's what John called them. "John doesn't really like it when-" He stopped himself when he saw the mischievous gleam in Moriarty's eyes when he said 'John'. "I'm going to turn you in."

"No you won't."

"You can't just terrorize a school and expect to get away with it."

"Oh, but I will." He began to pace a tight circle around the dark haired teacher. "You see, Sherlock, this little game of ours was fun, and you worked it out perfectly. I wanted your attention, and now I've got it. I'm done with these students, because now I have you."

"Why do you want my attention?"

"Don't you see? We're alike, so very much the same. And I'm getting bored with this world. I think it's time we both entertained ourselves a bit."

"No." Sherlock caught his eyes and glared hard in defiance.

"No?" Moriarty didn't quite count on Sherlock refusing him.

"No. I'm not getting caught up in whatever you're playing at. I don't want anything to do with you, Jim, except to turn you in."

He turned on his heels and strode at a new speed down towards the headmaster's office. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." Sherlock kept walking. "You won't like the consequences for you, because it's not just me." Sherlock came to a dead halt and turned slowly. Moriarty was smiling again. "See, now that you won't join my bigger plan, you've become a problem. The final problem." He walked casually back up to be face-to-face with his new adversary. "And if you don't stay out of my way. I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been well informed by the other staff that I don't have one."

Moriarty's smile was unsettling. "But we both know that's not true." The fire sprung green and he was gone before Sherlock could react.

* * *

A 'pop' sounded in the hallway of 221B, and John steeled himself. This was it. What if Sherlock gets mad or rejects him? Well, there wasn't much time to think about that right now. He'd dwelled on it all night already. As soon as Sherlock was through the door, John thrust the puppy dog in his face. "Look at what I found cold and lost on our doorstep today." Sherlock was taken aback. He'd just had an encounter with a murderer that threatened him, and his best friend wanted them to adopt a homeless puppy. "I named him Gladstone."

John was petting the bulldog puppy and smiling at his friend, hoping he wouldn't reject the puppy; John had no idea what Sherlock's thoughts or feelings were towards dogs. Sherlock looked at the puppy, shivering with excitement of a new arrival in this place he hoped to call home. "Adorable." Sherlock mumbled, and stalked off to his room, shutting the door on a bewildered John.


	17. Chapter 17

"Sherlock?" John rapped on the door tentatively. Sherlock didn't answer, so John pushed the door open slowly. The genius was folded up in his armchair, his hands steepled under his chin, lost in deep thought. Gladstone slipped past John's legs and ran into the room in a tornado of excited fluff. He wiggled a little, before letting out an excited bark, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. "I didn't mean to make you upset. We can take Gladstone to the pound tomorrow." He scooped the bulldog pup up into his arms.

Sherlock just shook his head. "It's not the dog. It was- it was nothing." He unfolded himself and pulled the dog into his arms. "I think he'll make a good edition to the flat." The puppy squirmed in his arms and licked his face sloppily. "He's an excitable fellow, isn't he?"

Gladstone barked again, before Sherlock set him on the floor, and he skittered out of the room to explore his new home more. "What's wrong, then?" John asked, handing him a mug of tea he'd made for himself, but decided Sherlock needed it more.

"Just some stress at school. End of term and all that."

"Well, it'll be over soon. I ordered in thai tonight, if that's ok. I didn't feel like cooking, or eating whatever attempt you would make at it." John smiled and went out into the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed deeply. He couldn't tell John that he'd been threatened by a murderer, John was his oldest friend, and he didn't want to worry him. Still. Moriarty needed to be stopped and it looked like Sherlock was going to have to be the one to do it.

That night was spent without sleep, and with his wand clutched tight to his chest. He was going to have confront this man again at school tomorrow, and he could only hope it would go as planned.


	18. Chapter 18

Professor Moriarty wasn't at school the next day and Sherlock spent the whole day in conflict over going to the Headmaster or to Lestrade. But, he knew that Moriarty had been serious in his threat to harm Sherlock. Now, the potions professor could care less if he was harmed, but Jim Moriarty knew that, and that meant John was the logical target.

Sherlock's anxious mood spilled over to his teaching atmosphere, and his students flubbed up all day, the Longbottom student almost blowing up the whole classroom in his clumsiness. At the end of that class period, Sherlock, Neville, and one other student had to spend an hour with Madam Pomfrey getting patched up. Sherlock was very unhappy, complaining that he was going to have to pick soot out of his eyebrows for weeks. That comment caused the other student, who had black soot tangled in her long blond hair, to start to cry and claw at the blemishes in her curls. Sherlock was given a band-aid for the cut on his forehead and asked to leave.

John wasn't home when Sherlock got there, which was strange, because it had been the healer's day off from St. Mungo's. Sherlock turned the light on in the flat, and, upon seeing the living room, he spun around and tried not to be sick into Mrs. Hudson's hall plant.

Gladstone's throat had been slit, and blood pooled all over the carpet. Black soot covered one wall of the flat, and there was an obvious sign of struggle. Sherlock dropped his things and looked around for any indication that John was out at the store or out with Sarah or Lestrade. Nothing.

Sherlock was getting worried. Where was John? His answer came in the form of a raven patronus gliding through the walls of 221B Baker Street. John's voice came streaming out of the misty beak.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so changeable. I can't let you continue, and you know exactly why. I-" There was a long pause, and Sherlock heard a harsh growl. "I told you I would burn the heart out of you, but I won't do it without an audience." John's voice wasn't wavering, but Sherlock knew he was nervous. "Sherlock, don't-" John was cut off and it was Moriarty that spoke now. "Not just any audience. A captive one is always better." The patronus faded and Sherlock felt a heavy object connect with the back of his skull, sending him into darkness.


	19. Chapter 19

When Sherlock woke up, he was vaguely aware of the pounding in the back of his head, but even more aware of the fact that he had no idea where he was. It was dark and smelled harshly of char and ash and something else. Something Sherlock couldn't quite place. A small glow started, what seemed like, several miles away, and grew and grew, until Sherlock could just make out the shape of a torch. "Oh goody. Look who's up." It was Moriarty's face that came leering out of the darkness. "Now we can begin."

Sherlock stood up, realizing that he hadn't been bound to anything. He reached behind him and pulled his wand out of his back pocket. "Where's John?" He thrust the stick, glowing red at the end now, into his captor's face.

"So impatient, Sherlock." The villain cooed. "But, I guess if my pet were to go missing, I'd want him back, too." Moriarty tossed the torch, and it went sailing to the left, before catching the floor on fire. It was lighter fluid Sherlock had smelled, and now the fire was spreading into a tight circle around a metal folding chair. A chair that John was tied to. Sherlock reacted quickly, casting a spell that put the flames out as fast as they had sprung up. Moriarty tutted disappointingly in the darkness. "You think an extinguishing spell can save him? I told you I'd burn the heart out of you." Suddenly, the room was cast in a bright orange glow. Heat and light emanated from the spot where Moriarty once stood, and an enormous orange and red dragon illuminated the very large metal warehouse. "And I always deliver on my promises." The deep, husky voice rolled out past tendrils of smoke, and Sherlock just barely dived out of the way of a coil of fire.

James Moriarty was an animagus. A dragon animagus! Sherlock had to think quick, and he had to keep moving. Rolling this way and that, he dodged rope after rope of the hot inferno. "Either you will die, or your friend will, Sherlock." The menacing voice came again. "There is no in between!"

Sherlock got an idea. He placed his wand between his teeth and used his own animagus form. The sleek black panther was faster and harder to to catch, and it gave Sherlock the advantage he needed. He ran full on at the dragon, and turning human again, he slid right between his legs and into John's. One slice from a panther claw later, the Healer was free from his bindings and drawing his wand. "You OK?" Sherlock managed to get in, as they watched the dragon turn himself around and find his prey once more.

"Never better." John said, and they dove in opposite directions from the blast. John knew they needed to get the dragon confused and angry enough to distract him. "Got a plan, genius?" He yelled across the warehouse.

"I thought we'd just wing it!" Sherlock called back.

"Just like school?"

"Just like school!"

Moriarty was furious now. They were enjoying the game too much! He was the only one supposed to be having fun! The dragon swung his tail at John, who flattened himself on the floor and avoided the swipe, then scrambled up and disappeared into the darkness again. One behind him and one in front. He'd just have to take them out individually.

Sherlock moved to cast a spell, when his wand was knocked from his hand. The searing pain from the burn forced him to the warehouse floor. Before he could think, Moriarty was looming over him, and Sherlock could see the fire starting to form behind the villain's monstrous jaws.

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for the heat. But instead, he heard a shout. John had scaled a wall, run across the beams, and was now swinging down on a piece of rigging. He sailed right down to hang in front of the fiery teeth, and sent a blast of blue light into the beast. Moriarty emitted a howl, reeling backwards and falling onto his scaly spine, shrinking slowly back into a man, lying still at last. John dropped from the chain, landing harshly on the ground and rolling into Sherlock. "What did you...?" Sherlock looked from John to their kidnapper and back.

"I'm a Healer, remember? I just used a simple spell for cooling burns and sometimes, freshening breath." John smiled his typical, crinkly eyed smile, and Sherlock mirrored him.

"His breath was rather horrible, wasn't it." And the two men burst into spirals of laughter.

"Sherlock," John gasped through his giggles. "We can't laugh! It's technically a crime scene!" That only set them into further glee. The two friends laughed on the dark floor of the warehouse until Lestrade and his team showed up. And even then, they still look back on the incident with a smile or a chuckle.


End file.
